


Volunteer

by l_am_adlocked



Series: Adlock Cross-Overs [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Angstlock, Can't tell you more than that, F/M, Hunger Games AU, No Hunger Games characters tho, No Katniss and Peeta, No Rebellion, Sadlock, Therefore no Mockingjay, Tributes, Yay angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-16 13:32:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11253972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_am_adlocked/pseuds/l_am_adlocked
Summary: FROM ANONYMOUS:“Okay Adlock Prompt - Hunger Games AU but not as Tributes.”





	Volunteer

**Author's Note:**

> WHAT IS THE HUNGER GAMES?
> 
> The Hunger Games universe is a dystopia set in Panem, a country consisting of the wealthy Capitol and 12 districts in varying states of poverty. Every year, children from the districts are selected to participate in a compulsory annual televised death match called The Hunger Games.
> 
> The Capitol is basically their government.

**PRESENT**

_The wheel turns. Nothing is ever knew_ , he thinks as he observes everyone in front of him as he stands still due to protocol.

Once more, his eyes glide to his family standing on the side, looking at him—trying to be supportive and optimistic, and trying hard not to look as horrified as he knows they are feeling. He's not surprised with the emotion in their eyes. Although he will never admit it, the Holmes family is actually quite strongly family-oriented despite being an eccentric one.

Every time his mother would natter on about him; every time his father would ask him if he's all right; and every time Mycroft would monitor him to the point of stalking, they only prove his observation. His family is a suffocating noose around his neck.

But right now, he can't help but think that they have every right to be worried.

“Welcome. Welcome,” she says in an odd tone through the microphone. Sherlock stares intensely as he listens to her low tone.

 _She's young_ , he thinks,  _younger than me_. He sighs. That doesn't matter at the moment. He hates staying still. He wants to scream—just for the hell of it. He wants to change protocol. He wants to lash out and do something. It would be worth it to just twirl around without a care in the world, because he doesn't like caring at all…

…which is highly unfortunate because right now, he cares  _very very much_.

His hands shake beside him as he waits with a feeling that is a mixture of anticipation, worry, and a heavy amount of fear.

“As we celebrate—” she starts again with that tone of hers—cold rather than cheerful—a feat obvious from her choice of clothing: a black dress. The strong vibrancy of the red on her lips is evident from the hidden rage in her tone—which Sherlock is sure only  _he_ can hear.

 _She doesn't want to be here_ , Sherlock observes. He doesn't blame her.

“—the 75th Anniversary and 3rd Quarter Quell [1] of the Hunger Games,” she continues in that low voice of hers. “As always, ladies first.” She moves towards the bowl.

He sighs in defeat. He doesn't really understand the necessity of placing her name in the first place since she's the only female Victor of District 3. [2]

“The female Tribute from District 3,” she says, opening the piece of paper even though everyone knows who it will be. “Mary Elizabeth Watson,” she announces. No surprise there.

Sherlock grimaces at the harsh cold eyes of Mary Watson.  _She's angry_ , he observes,  _very angry and very determined._

“Wonderful,” she says almost sarcastically with that low voice of hers.

 _She really has changed_ , he thinks to himself, staring at Irene Adler—his escort for the 55th Anniversary of the Hunger Games. At the time, she was the youngest escort to have ever been assigned a district but was told to be one of the best escorts despite her young age. He can confirm that. She’s clever— _really_ clever. Perhaps that’s why she keeps returning to District 3 despite her luxurious life in the Capitol.

Or maybe she doesn’t like the Capitol at all, considering that her way of dressing up isn’t exactly the same type of fashion they have there. _Thank goodness_ , he thinks, knowing that if he had spent his time in the 55th Hunger Games with someone dressed so _oddly_ , he’d have let himself die to spare himself the sight.

“And now for the men,” she continues, moving to the other bowl which holds only two.

He can feel the other man beside him stiffen but instantly stands tall with his chin held high—as ever the soldier he could have been. Irene sighs as she places her hand in the bowl, hesitating for a moment, before taking one of two papers.

With a sigh, she turns back to the microphone. “The male Tribute from District 3.”

Everyone hears the deep breath she lets out through the speakers—a despair no one else sees except, of course, him. The two male victors both see Irene look up from the small piece of paper to both of their faces, as if her whole world had changed in those few moments.

“John Hamish Watson,” she whispers quietly.

“I volunteer as Tribute,” Sherlock immediately declares and her eyes close at his words.

A loud cry of “No!” comes from the audience and this time, Sherlock closes _his_ eyes at the familiar voice of his parents trying to stop him from pulling through with his decision.

“Sherlock, no!” John exclaims immediately, grabbing a hold of Sherlock’s arm when the latter tried walking beside Irene. “You can’t!”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock replies quietly, not daring to look at him.

“I’m not letting you go back in that death cage,” John says. “I’m not letting yourself get killed. I have to be with Mary… Sherlock, she’s my _wife_.”

“And she’s my friend,” Sherlock replies, finally look at John. “Both of you are… and I’m going to protect her.”

“I’m her husband. I should be the one doing all the protecting.”

Sherlock snorts humourlessly. “We both know she’s protecting both of us.”

John shakes his head. “Sherlock, I have more combat training than you do. We both know exactly how good I can be inside the arena.”

Sherlock sighs. “I made a vow, remember? _Whatever it takes_.”

“Y-you _dickhead_ , I’m not letting you do this,” John cries out desperately.

“John… Make sure Mycroft and my parents don’t kill anyone while I’m gone.”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock yanks his arm away from John’s grip and goes to stand beside Irene. He can feel the woman beside him hold her emotions—a feat he admired her for in the first place.

“Very well,” she sighs. “The Tributes from District 3: Mary Watson,” she says, placing a hand on her shoulder, “and… She—” she trails off before swallowing—“Sherlock Holmes,” she finishes, hesitatingly placing a hand on his shoulder as well.

The Peacemakers lead them both back inside.

As they walk through the doors with the Peacemakers beside them, they both turn to look behind them. Sherlock meets Irene’s eyes which are staring back at his with a look of cold steel, hard determination, and something he can’t exactly read. Mary lets out a shaky breath at the sound of John’s voice yelling their names—struggling as he tries to get past the Peacemakers. They both turn forwards to their rooms to wait to talk to their loved ones.

“Thank you,” Mary tells Sherlock quietly as they continue to move.

“Psychopaths have to stick together,” Sherlock replies to lighten the mood, which works since he hears Mary chuckle at that. “I made a vow for both of you,” he continues seriously, “for all _three_ of you.”

Mary’s eyes snap up to his. “You know?”

“I do.”

“When did you know?” she asks.

“Just today. When did _you_?” he asks.

“Just today,” she replies despairingly.

“Are you going to tell John?” Sherlock asks.

“With me going to the Quarter Quell? No.”

“No, I suppose not,” he agrees.

* * *

“Rosamund,” the family but lower voice of Irene Adler says.

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me _Mary_?” she asks with a fond smile, knowing Irene does this on purpose. Mary had officially changed her name years ago. Just after the 57th Hunger Games, when she had stopped being _Rosamund_ , the woman who hesitated killing a child—only for the said child to be killed by someone from another district moments after.

Her weapon was easier—a gun she had made herself. The death would have been quick, but her morals got a child to die slowly with several knife wounds. In a way, she had avenged him by killing his killer immediately—a shot on the leg, a shot on the arm, and another, and another, and another, before finally shooting him in the head. The last shot made her a Victor for District 3, but it also made her a murderer for herself.

Be that as it may, Mary becoming a Victor was legendary because she marks the third victory of District 3—having had two consecutive victories previous. She did not disappoint.

Mary straightens up from the couch where she and Sherlock are sitting on in one of the Tribute Train’s compartments as they talked about what to do in the Quarter Quell.

“What is it, Irene?” she asks.

“Mister Watson isn’t being reasonable at the moment. I thought you might want to talk to him?” she asks her. They all try to ignore the fact that Irene had already opened the door for Mary to walk through even though the latter hadn’t even agreed to talk to John yet.

Knowing that she was being dismissed, Mary turns to Sherlock. “Talk to you later.”

“All right,” he replies.

Mary walks towards the door and pauses when she is standing parallel to Irene beside her, both of them staring at opposites sides of the door.

“I didn’t make him volunteer, by the way,” she tells Irene quietly, not looking at her.

“In a way, you did,” Irene replies just as quietly, her eyes fixed on Sherlock who has turned his head, avoiding Irene’s gaze, to look out of the window as the train gets swallowed by the forest, losing sight of their home. “I can’t really stop him though, can I?”

“You know him longer than I do,” Mary says.

“You know him closer than I do,” Irene counters.

“I doubt that.” Mary finally turns her head to look at Irene. “I’ll take care of him.”

“See that you do,” she whispers, still not taking her eyes off of Sherlock.

With that, Mary slowly closes her door behind her with a silent _thud_.

And the two stay silent.

* * *

**TWENTY YEARS AGO**

“The male Tribute from District 3,” she announces in a cold voice.

 _I wonder why they changed the escort,_ he thinks as he stands still, watching as the new escort opens the paper to read it out. Her brows raise and her lips twitch in amusement.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” she reads.

His heart stops beating at that point as everyone beside him stares at him. The chances of her picking him was small, considering that District 3 is the third most populated district in all of Panem and that the bowls have hundreds and thousands of papers in them.

Slowly, with his heart dropping, and from the shock of it all, he doesn’t hear both of his parents cry out, “NO! NOT AGAIN! NOT AGAIN!”

“Where are you?” the girl in front asks.

Sighing, he moves to the aisle where the Peacekeepers all move towards him. Four of them walk with him—two leading the way, and two holding his arms. His eyes remain on the girl on the stands who is looking at him curiously. With a sigh, he lets go of any emotion that might embarrass him in front of the cameras watching him as of his moment.

He hears the girl hum through the microphone and he tilts his head at her at the sound. As they maintain eye-contact, she raises her brow with him raising his own in reply. Looking at her from the top of her head to the top of her toes, he just realised that the girl is not wearing anything close to the usual style in the Capitol where everything is bright and extravagant.

She wears a simple white dress that goes to her knees, hugging her figure. The only colours on her would be the vibrant red of her lips and the bright blue on her eyes. She is simple and yet elegant—beautiful with a face that a boy could die for.

He shakes his head as he finally reaches the stage to stand beside her and the Peace- keepers finally leave him. The girl waits for him as he walks up the steps to the stage and she looks at him briefly when he reached the top. He’s taller than her, even with her heels. Then again, he is one of the tallest boys in the school. Slowly than needed, she places an arm around his waist and the other on his arm, leading him to stand on a specific spot. He pretends not to notice how her hand glides along his back and arms as she leaves him to his post to stand between him and the female Tribute who’s trying really hard not to cry in front of everyone.

“Here we are,” her voice interrupts his musings, “our Tributes from District 3—Jennifer Wilson and William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” [3]

He can see the horrified looks on his parents faces as well as the blank face of his brother. He’s never thought about the possibility of being a Tribute before.  Kill or be killed.

 _This is vivisection_ , he thinks.

* * *

**PRESENT**

“You volunteered,” Irene says, finally breaking the silence. Sherlock turns his head from the window to see Irene leaning on the wall beside the door with her arms crossed. She’s angry but it doesn’t show. Of course, it _never_ shows.

“I had to,” he replies.

“Why?” she asks.

“I made a vow,” he explains.

“Pathetic,” she says coldly.

Sherlock snorts. “Sentiment.”

Something in her eyes breaks at the word and she moves away from the wall to walk towards him, kneeling on the ground to stare up at him. Sherlock, who had been leaning back on the couch, moves forward to meet her halfway. Slowly, she places a hand on the hand resting on the couch, and he instantly turns her hand so he could be able to hold her wrist better. Despite already knowing the intensity of the beat of her pulse, he can’t help but touch her wrist—a reminder of what is underneath all that cold mask of hers.

“You shouldn’t have volunteered.”

“And get John killed?” he asks.

Irene sighs. “He’d be with Mary.”

“And one of them would have died.”

“You lack faith in them,” Irene replies. “They’re strong. They’ve proven themselves capable after their participation in the Hunger Games.”

“So have I.”

“You never killed anyone directly.”

“Which only makes it worse.”

“How?”

“I manipulated them into going to their deaths—a false sense of hope ending with the betrayal. Isn’t that crueler than shooting them in the head in cold blood? I play God in the arena.”

“Then you shouldn’t have let yourself be in that arena again. You were safe. It was supposed to be John—not you.”

“I can’t let John die.”

“And what about you?”

“It can only be Mary.”

“Why? Because she’s pregnant? Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’ve known the woman for years, and I was trained to observe everyone in my surroundings. I’m a woman; it’s even easier to sense these things… So, is that why?”

“John would’ve fought the officials if he found out Mary’s pregnant.”

“Because he wouldn’t want her to compete, but she has to.”

“And it will be worse if he finds out while he’s in the arena.”

Irene closes her eyes. “You’re rationalising why you volunteered.”

“Because it _is_ a rational choice.”

“It’s a cruel one.”

“Why?”

“You’re pulling Mary away from her husband. You’re not letting John have his right as a husband to protect his wife and child. You’re…”

“…yes?…”

 _Abandoning me_. “You’re sacrificing yourself unnecessarily.”

“Who says I’m going to die in this arena?” Sherlock asks.

“One victor, Sherlock. There can only be one.”

“We’ll end it—me and Mary. We’re going to change the rules.”

“And why would they?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Just trust me.”

“How can I?”

“…I don’t know.”

Silence.

* * *

**NINETEEN YEARS AGO**

Sherlock doesn’t attend the Reaping. It doesn’t matter that _she’s_ there reading who the new Tributes are. He wants out of it—away from all the protocol, from all the stupid unnecessary rules. The Victory Tour was hell since he was told to read some stupid lines from a piece of paper.

Plenty of times, he had commented on the stupidity of it all, only to have him be pulled back and threatened within an inch of his life. Sherlock runs outside and yells at the top of his lungs as he celebrates the first time he doesn’t attend the Reaping.

“Sherlock, come back here at once!” he hears Mycroft yell behind him but ignores him.

“No!”  He is a Victor. They can’t control him as they did before, and neither can his brother.

“Sherlock, you’re being obnoxious!” Mycroft says.

“Who cares?! We’re the only ones here!” he says somewhat in a fit of anger which he doesn’t know the cause of.

Thankfully, Mycroft lets him be.

* * *

“Sherlock?” he hears his mother ask, knocking on the door quietly. They believe it is wise not to startle him too much. Sherlock thinks they’re acting as if he’s a fragile human being.

“What?” he asks, raising his head from the book he was reading as his mother’s head pokes into the room. “There’s a girl downstairs to see you.”

Sherlock blinks profusely. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” his mother says with a sad smile. “Please, come downstairs.” He swallows down the lump in his throat. His mother never says _please_ unless it is an actual act of pleading.

“All right,” he answers, much to his mother’s surprise although she tries not to show it.

Placing his book on the bedside table, he fixes himself up and follows his mother’s lead, a feeling of dread and anticipation befalling upon him. The sight that greets him is far from unpleasant—although he will never admit it. He should have known. His mother had said _girl_ , and who is the _only_ girl who had known him enough to dare visit him?

“Mister Holmes?” she says when they finally have eye-contact.

“Miss Adler,” he replies.

“I’m going to make us some tea, okay?” his mother says, moving to the kitchen. Sherlock shakes his head, his eyes following his mother. When the kitchen door closes, he turns to look at _her_. Knowing that their conversation would be far from private, he sighs.

“Shall we?” he asks, gesturing towards the door.

She gives a small smirk and replies. “We shall.”

Without another word, she moves towards the door with him following her, closing the door behind him. He sighs as the outdoor environment.

“Seems you’ve been holing up in your room,” she comments. “Victor’s life not working for you?” she asks as they walk.

“Perhaps I’m just acting like a normal teenager,” Sherlock says.

“What _is_ normal, anyways?” she asks with a laugh.

Sherlock chuckles beside her. “Don’t ask me.”

As the silence stretches on, they reach the forest. Not to Sherlock’s surprise, she stops when they reach it. What he didn’t expect is for her to place a hand on his arm and remove her black pumps, replacing them with socks that are thick enough to withstand the terrain of the hard forest.

They venture on together.

“You are District 3’s first Victor,” she suddenly says after the long silence.

They stop in front of a stream, away from prying ears.

Sherlock sighs. “The point being?”

“You’ll have to train the next tributes for the upcoming games.”

“Why? No one trained me.”

“Which makes you capable enough to teach them how to survive. Are you really going to abandon them?” Irene asks.

“Do you really care?” Sherlock asks with his eyes narrowed.

“Not as much as I should, but I _am_ still human.”

“It’s not my duty to teach the Tributes.”

“Then their deaths will be on your hands… You could give them a better chance at staying alive, you know.”

“I never signed up to be relied upon.”

“No one ever does,” she says, “but it’s your choice. Though, disagreeing would get you in trouble with the Capitol. You know as much as I do that they carry on with their threats.”

Sherlock sighs, remembering how much damage they had caused for his misbehaviour in the Victory Tours. “They do, don’t they?” Sherlock asks. “Politics is so stupid. I don’t understand why Mycroft is so fascinated with it.”

Irene chuckles. “You’d be surprised on what people will do to get what they want.”

“That’s your business, isn’t it? Blackmail?”

“Protection,” Irene replies. “I make my way around Panem. I misbehave. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly _one_ way to stop me.” Sherlock chuckles.

* * *

**PRESENT**

Three knocks.

“Sherlock? Irene?” Mary’s voice interrupts them, her head poking through the door.

Quickly, Irene stands up from her position and walks towards near the window, resting her hands on the handrail, looking out at the sight of the woods being passed by. How quickly time goes. How quickly time is wasted.

_How sentimental Sherlock Holmes is._

“I’ve calmed him down a bit,” Mary informs them calmly.

Just as she said it, the door slams open with John barreling himself inside.

“Sherlock, what the _fuck_?!” he demands.

“Hello to you, too, John,” Sherlock greets.

“No, shut up. _Shut up_ ,” John says, raising a finger for emphasis. “I’m not going through with this bullshit anymore, Sherlock. I was called, hmm? My name was announced, _hmm_? Why would you volunteer? How could you do that? _How_?”

“Mary will be safe now,” Sherlock replies, standing from the couch and to the train window beside Irene, resting his hands on the handrail, a few centimentres beside hers, to watch the view.

“And you think she won’t be when _I’m_ with her? That _I’m_ not good enough?” he asks.

“Sentiment will cloud your judgment, John. This is for the best,” he calmly replies, turning and standing to his full height to look down at John. “Everyone knows what you are capable of.”

With that, John straightens himself up with his arms beside him, his shoulders squaring, his chin rising. “I can’t let you get killed.”

Sherlock chuckles. “We both know what _I’m_ capable of.”

“You don’t know what it’s like to kill someone with your bare hands,” John says.

“And you don’t know what it’s like to betray someone’s trust and have them die by their own hands without their knowledge,” Sherlock says.

“They know not to trust you anymore,” John points out.

“I told you on the day we first met: there’s no trust in the arena… except between me and Mary, I suppose.”

“Won’t go killing me off now, will you, Sherlock?” Mary teases.

“Not unless you try to kill me,” Sherlock teases back.

John grumbles. “Look at you, lot. You two should have got married.”

Sherlock sighs. “If you and Mary had been together in the arena, it would have been considerably easier for any of the others to use you against the other. You two are _married_ , and that makes you the perfect bait for the other.”

“Also, everyone thinks Sherlock is in love with you,” Irene suddenly says. All heads turn ot her. “Everyone would think Sherlock is using Mary to finish her off and have you all for himself. You could use that to your advantage, you know,” Irene tells Sherlock. “Might be fun.” She shrugs. Sherlock snorts in reply as John grumbles about the rumours.

“I guess they have no idea how much Sherlock is interested in dark-haired women with dubious morals,” Mary comments.

Irene looks at her. “Thinking of dyeing your hair, then?” she says with a smirk.

“Only when I’m in trouble,” she replies, giving her own of her own smirks.

“Why is everyone flirting with everyone?” John mutters to himself. “Look, Sherlock,” he says louder and more seriously, “I really appreciate this but things have changed in the arenas.”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock snaps, “I was the one who trained _you_. I was the one who told you what to _do_. I trained _you_ and _Mary_ extensively and you both _won_. The others had been unfortunate since the three of us… and if you think I won’t be annoying the people in the Capital, then that’s where you’re wrong.”

John closes his mouth and sighs, looking at both Mary and Irene for a brief moment before pivoting with his right foot and on the toes of his left foot, turning around his right shoulder—a perfect 180 degree turn when commanded in a drill.

Eventually, John walks out without another word. Sighing, Mary follows him.

“John,” Mary says, reaching the bedroom where John has his elbows on his knees with his head buried in his hands. “Darling, it’s going to be okay.”

“My wife and my best friend are going to the arena where people are forced to kill each other for the amusement of the people in the Capitol. How is _that_ okay?” John murmurs, his voice muffled with his hands.

“Sherlock will keep us safe,” she says. “He wasn’t a Victor for nothing.”

“He manipulated people… No one will trust him enough to be manipulated. These are _adults_ , Mary— _adults_ , and not teenagers.”

“Sherlock’s an adult, too.”

“You really have faith in him?” John asks.

“Are you seriously asking that question?” Mary asks in surprise, because John never doubted Sherlock when something needs to be done.

“No,” John eventually replies, “it’s just hard to put someone else as your supporter.”

“You’re going to support us, too, you know. We have someone to hold on to—a reason to stay. If you get killed off, Sherlock and Irene would have immediately lost two friends.”

John raises his eyes at Mary. “You wouldn’t,” he says.

“Of course, I would. I have no one else,” Mary says truthfully but her voice is barely a whisper at the end, remembering that she isn’t just one person anymore now— _pregnant_. She has to save her life for the child— _her and John’s child_.

“There’s Sherlock and Irene,” John says failingly.

“They have each other,” Mary reasons, “even if they both deny it.”

“I wouldn’t know how to live if you were killed off,” John says, “which is why I am sure you’re going to get out of there alive—both you and Sherlock.”

“There had never been two victors in one game,” Mary says.

“Then you two must make history happen.”

* * *

**NINETEEN YEARS AGO**

“John Hamish Watson,” the escort, Irene Adler, announces in front.

He sighs, shaking his head in anger. _Such fucking luck,_ he thinks, _if I hadn’t been called, I would never be in a Reaping ever again. Why does the fucking universe hate me? I’m nearly there. I’m 18 now and I nearly avoided the fucking arena._

As he walks towards the Peacekeepers, his eyes glide over to where his sister, Harry, and their parents are standing. Their family had never had a close relationships but they are still family. To his relief, they look terrified for him. At least, he knows that they still care about him—even a little bit. Looking  at the stage, he cannot help but shake his head at their escort who is obviously younger than him. The Capitol is involving younger people in this stupid fucking way to remind all how they lost their rebellion against the Capitol.

He can’t help but remember watching their Tributes last year, and how much horror he feels to see twelve to eighteen-year -olds killing each other. No one is trained to kill. People treat each other like objects. They forget what _human life_ means.

That’s exactly what the Capitol wants everyone to feel—to hurt and go against each other. Now, he is one of the people who is now a part of this war, and to have the district’s faith on his and the other Tribute’s shoulders—that their nourishment and food depend on whether they win or not. He sighs. He never wanted to kill, and hopefully, he doesn’t have to kill in cold blood.

He can imagine what Sherlock Holmes had been through. Looking at the stage, he is not surprised that the teen is not present. If he himself had gone through hell and back, he’d do everything in his power to separate himself from any associations with the Games.

“Our Tributes from District 3—Soo Lin Yao and John Watson.” [3]

* * *

“Hello,” they hear the familiar voice greeting them. Both he and Soo Lin perch up from sitting on opposite sides of the compartment to see a dark-haired boy and the escort enter.

John sits up at the boy— _Sherlock Holmes_ , District 3’s first Victor… a _child_.

“Hi,” both new Tributes say.

“My name is Irene Adler,” their escort greets, “and I’m sure you know that this is Sherlock Holmes, our Victor from last year.”

Sherlock sighs. “I can introduce myself, you know.”

“You can,” Irene agrees, “but we both know you won’t.”

Sherlock grumbles before sitting on one of the armchairs in the room, with Irene following him and sitting on the armchair beside him. Sherlock narrows his eyes at her but she doesn’t seem to pay any mind to that.

Both John and Soo Lin stand up from the opposite sides of the compartment and on to the other armchairs in front of the other two.

“John Watson and Soo Lin Yao, I’ve heard,” Sherlock addresses them.

“Why weren’t you at the Reaping?” Soo Lin asks.

“I didn’t feel like it,” Sherlock answers.

“And they allowed you?” John asks in surprise.

“You know what I do to win,” Sherlock replies coldly.

“Manipulation or indirect killings,” Soo Lin responds with a nod.

Irene tries to hide her chuckle as Sherlock scowls at Soo Lin. Nevertheless, he keeps a straight-face. “I was told I am here to give you advices on how it’s like in the arena,” he continues, glancing at Irene who annoyingly keeps her smile, “but then, I suppose, you already know what happened,” he finishes, looking at both of them pointedly when he said the last word.

“But we don’t know your side of the story,” John points out, “and maybe an inside view is better than spectating from a television.”

“Stay away from the Cornucopia in the beginning. Keep yourself alive. Come back when there is the least amount of people. Trust no one or make them trust you. Kill or be killed—in any form; it doesn’t matter.”

John looks at the boy in front of him as they all fall silent.

“H-how old are you?” John finally asks.

Sherlock looks at him straight in the eyes. “Fifteen.”

_God, he’s three years younger than me and he’s giving me advices on how to kill another human being. What the hell is wrong with the world?_

“In terms of survival, it’s always been Darwin— _survival of the fittest_ , and with species as complex as us, fitness does not necessarily mean only physical. Of course, I’ve had my fair share of fights—even before the arena—”

Everyone stares at him at that but his eyes are locked on the windows outside, his eyes glazed and haunting as well as hypnotising.

“—and hitting people in the right spots to keep them immobile, and wait for someone else to kill them as they go through unbearable pain.”

 _He was fourteen when he fought_ , the voice in John’s head keeps reminding him.

“Is it hard?” John asks. “To kill?”

Sherlock looks at him in the eye. “Killing is a mercy in the arena.”

 _He’s just a kid_ , John thinks.

* * *

**PRESENT**

Sherlock sighs as Mary closes the door behind her. Turning around to look at the view outside, once more, he rests his hands on the handrail and sneaks looks at Irene.

“Anything you’d like to add?” Sherlock quietly asks the woman standing beside him.

“None at all,” she replies, her eyes fixated on the outside view.

“Not even with me pretending to be so desperately in love with John?” he asks with a small chuckle. Irene gives a small laugh.

“Well, don’t go actually saying it, I suppose.” She smirks. “Or else you’ll have to keep up with the act after the Games.”

His smile drops to a more serious look. “You talk as if you’re expecting me to win.”

“That’s one of your most annoying qualities, Sherlock.” She turns to look at him in the eye. “You never leave anything or anyone alone—even then they ask for it.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Perhaps it could also be my best.”

Irene gives him an agreeing look before shaking her head, laughing. “Definitely the worst.”

“Well, people are stupid; and people need to be reminded why they are so.”

“Do you _really_ think you’re _that_ indestructible?” Irene asks.

Sherlock scoffs. “Of course not. As much as I want to be, I am still biologically designed as any human being. Very annoying, if you ask me.”

“Do you prefer to play God?” Irene asks.

“That’s Mycroft’s job,” Sherlock says. “I only ever want the adrenaline.”

“Is that why you volunteered?”

“Part of it.”

“And the other parts?”

“I told you.”

“John and Mary.”

“Yup.”

“If Mary dies—”

“She won’t.”

“ _IF_ Mary dies,” she says with a pause, “what are you going to do?”

“Kill everyone responsible,” Sherlock replies, shrugging.

Irene hums. “If _you_ die?”

“Then I die,” he responds, giving Irene an odd look, “I wouldn’t have any say to what comes next, would I?… But of course, that won’t be happening.”

“Why?”

“Because I always have a plan.”

“These aren’t mere dogs you’re fighting, Sherlock,” she starts seriously. “These people have experiences. These people have killed before and _won_ , fighting everyone else. They are survivors, too, you know, and if I had learned anything from you, it’s that survivors never quit.”

“Then you’d know I won’t quit.”

“They’re dragons.”

“Funny; Mycroft and the Capital always called me The Dragon Slayer.”

“Just…” Irene sighs.

She and Sherlock look at each other in the eye, staring at one another. He watches as her eyes glide from one eye to the next, and not caring anymore, he lets his eyes glide from the top of her natural hair to the rest of her face—drinking it in. He stares at the stoic expression on her face, the fiery determination in her eyes, and the vulnerability unseen by the naked eye.

No one knows who made the first move but suddenly their lips had met.

It wasn’t the first time they’ve kissed and though both of them don’t realise it, they had both promised themselves in their heads that it won’t be the last either… especially what could or could not happen after the Games, and the fact that their time together may perhaps even be quite limited as of today.

As their other hands hold on to the handrails to keep each other from falling, Sherlock’s free hand immediately cups the side of her head as Irene snakes her free arm around his neck with her hand going through his dark curls, closing her fist—eliciting a moan from Sherlock.

He, in turn, manoeuvres them so she would be trapped between himself and the wall, giving her the opportunity to let go of the handrail since Sherlock and the wall sandwiching her is enough to keep her balance.

Her other arm immediately wraps around his waist as she pulls him closer to her, taking every moment she has with him into memory, just as he is drinking every moment he has with her.

Sherlock’s one and only regret for ever volunteering for the games:

_Her._

**Author's Note:**

> I might continue this. I might not. Tell me if you want me to continue :)
> 
> [1] "Every 25 years there is a Quarter Quell edition of the Hunger Games. Quells mark the anniversaries of the districts' defeat by the Capitol, and include special celebrations. The Games involves some sort of twist that makes them even more disastrous or difficult to compete in, or watch."
> 
> [2] District 3 is one of the 13 districts of Panem. Its main industry is technology. It is also one of the most rebellious of districts. People are here are said to have ashen or pale skin.
> 
> Tributes from District 3 tend to be extremely clever at creating and using electronics; Beetee achieved his victory by utilizing his knowledge and skill with electrical devices. Before the Dark Days, District 3 was one of the more wealthy districts.
> 
> To be honest, District 13 (with Weaponry as its specialty) is more likely for our group but there is no district 13 sooo... People from District 3 are clever and stuff, though... Just, I couldn't think of other districts to fit them all except District 13, okay?
> 
> [3] Yes, I used victims in Sherlock as the Tributes who die here.


End file.
